Unbreakable
by fowl68
Summary: He is proud of his creations, of all he's done. He will not be painted a monster, or a villain. Mithos is a god, a hero, and he will die as one. Character study. Spoilers.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything!

 **Author's Note:** I have a new obsession. My friend has introduced me to the musical Hamilton, and I'm absolutely in love with it. So many subtleties and layers and it legitimately blows my mind. This was inspired by Hamilton, specifically the songs Hurricane and The World Was Wide Enough. If you get a chance, please watch it. I beg you.

* * *

 _The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.  
-Ernest Hemingway  
_

* * *

Death is an old friend of Mithos', and he's been running from it for as long as he can remember.

Before the war came to Heimdall—there is talk of it in other countries, other cities, but Heimdall is still at peace, as unchanging as ever—he remembers a storm. A fierce one. The thing about Heimdall is that it is built on swampy soil. It rains often, and the ground is soft and squishy, the bases of tree trunks under water. He remembers that the storm had raged forever—or so it had seemed then. To a child, time is a strange, liquid thing. He remembers being on mama's lap as they sit on the roof of their home to avoid the floodwaters.

 _(Mithos didn't remember much of Heimdall, but he remembered seeing the village underwater, remembered mama's sobs as a bloated body floated past them, remembered papa turning Martel's face away, hiding her face in his chest. Mithos wouldn't remember this, but after the floodwaters ebb away, and the dead were counted, that would be when the mutters against the half-elves started, claims that no half-elves died, and that it had been some kind of vengeance against the full-blooded ones)_

He remembers Martel grabbing his wrist and they are running, running, their feet sinking into the soil, and they don't stop running. Not for years. Not until they find the military, until they meet Yuan and Kratos. He remembers running into the Ymir, Martel scooping him onto her back as she scrambles up the trees, her dress ripping on branches. He remembers being pressed against her chest, remembers being able to feel her shaky breaths, remembers not knowing who was hanging onto each other's hand more tightly. They hide in that tree all night, waiting for the voices to fade away, for the footsteps to go away.

They hide in the Ymir for days, for weeks. Mithos doesn't remember asking, but he knows he must have because he remembers Martel looking very small, and at the same time, the only pillar that's holding up their little world. She'd said, "I don't know where what we're going to go now. It's dangerous out there."

 _(Mithos remembered that line very clearly. It's dangerous out there. Yes, it was. The Ymir Forest was safe, for them, despite the predators. It was the safest place for them. But they both remembered the storm, the flood, and the Ymir was already half underwater. They wouldn't survive a storm here. Their time was limited)_

He remembers starvation well. Remembers how, at some point, it doesn't hurt anymore. The clawing of his hunger at the walls of his stomach is something perfectly normal. They eat discarded, rotting food, and at some point, they stop throwing it back up. Martel tells him to stay put, hidden in a little alley, and she teaches herself to steal. Mithos remembers that the sight of her, bruised and bloody from the beatings when she's caught, make him sicker than any rotting food could. He remembers how she had smiled for him when she would catch him worrying. There would be blood in her teeth sometimes, but she would still smile and wink and say, "Don't worry about me. This is nothing."

He remembers looking for clean water, remembers finding rivers downstream of battles and there is blood and worse in the water, and if they'd had anything in their stomachs other than bile, they would have thrown it up then. Sometimes—very rare times—they manage to get a meal for some work. Cleaning stables, laundry, harvest. That is when Mithos learns to be grateful for the kindness of strangers.

 _(For the entirety of his life, Mithos remembered how very strong his sister was. Her smile, her calloused hands. Remembered watching her struggle to her feet after a beating, spitting blood out of her mouth in the direction of her attackers. The world would not remember this, but Mithos would make sure it knew that Martel Yggdrasill was unbreakable)_

Martel is dying, and Mithos doesn't know what to do. She is feverish, her eyes too bright and glassy, skin sheet-white beneath her freckles. Sometimes, she doesn't recognize him, doesn't know where she is. That's the part that terrifies him the most. Mithos bangs on doors and asks everyone he can find for a doctor, anything because this is his sister, can't they understand, she's _sick_.

He dodges fists and words and there must be someone looking out for them because a doctor does take them in. She's an older woman, kind-eyed and looking so very weary. She lays Martel down, mixes medicines and tells Mithos to make sure that the wet towel on Martel's forehead stays cold, can he do that?

When the doctor finally sits back, Mithos asks if Martel's going to be okay.

The doctor's eyes are grim, but she doesn't lie, and Mithos appreciates that. "I can't promise anything, boyo. I've done what I can. It's up to her and the Spirits now."

 _(That calmed Mithos because the doctor didn't know this, but Martel was unbreakable. She wouldn't stop fighting, not ever. That didn't mean that when the fever finally broke, and her eyes fluttered open, and she said his name, that he didn't cry a little from sheer relief)_

He remembers countless battles, remembers the ache of the sword in his arms, remembers Martel with dark circles beneath her eyes, swaying where she stands from exhaustion as she works in the medical tents. He remembers the human that stays by a half-elf's bedside, remembers how the human offers to make Martel tea because she looks like she needs it and he needs to do something with his hands, please let him make tea.

When the half-elf wakes up, the human hugs him tightly, and the half-elf is saying "Ow,ow,ow, Kratos, I love you too, but that _hurts_." And that is the day that Martel officially meets Yuan, checking him over and rolling her eyes at Kratos' sheepish apology. They become friends, in that medical tent, telling stories, and scolding Martel for not taking care of herself. Kratos rolls bandages and washes clean cloths, helps hold down the soldiers for their stitches. Yuan doesn't seem to ever _stop talking_ , but it's a welcome distraction not just for them, but for the patients as well, so they let him be. He talks about everything, stories, and oh, did you hear this one joke about the dwarf and the oak tree? And Martel shooting him a look because there's a _child present,_ can you keep the dirty jokes to minimum?

Mithos and Yuan just exchange grins, but they look properly chastised.

When Mithos is injured, Martel isn't allowed to be his doctor, officially. She's too emotional, people say, but that doesn't stop her from tutting over the other medics' work, and who taught them stitches?

He remembers the hundred degree humid summers, remembers heat sickness washing through the army. He remembers watching them die, remembers the stench of corpses cooking in the heat.

 _(That summer was the most painful one, and Martel's eyes dimmed somewhat after that. Yuan brought her back, though, and even if Mithos kind of wanted to hate him for taking Martel's attention away, he loved him for making her smile like that, for making her laugh and oh she was so happy with him)_

Martel and Yuan are married in the last days of autumn, before the frost sets in. Mithos hates northern winters; Heimdall doesn't believe in winter. Heimdall has only two seasons: wet and dry. He remembers that Martel would tease him about that, that he is such an elfchild.

They huddle together that winter, the four of them, sleeping beneath shared blankets because it is entirely too cold. He remembers how difficult to get supplies it is, remembers hearing soldiers shoot horses, and dogs, and stray cats for meat. He remembers waking in the night, terrified that they'll come to eat him too, because he knows how desperate hunger can make someone. Whoever is beside him usually wakes, those times, and soothes him back to sleep. Kratos' voice is like a quiet metronome with its steadiness. Yuan will grumble, but in his grumpiness, he'll tell him to go back to sleep, promises that he'll stay awake and keep guard. And he does. Martel combs her fingers through his hair, and they exchange whispers, little secrets, and he always feels safe with her beside him.

 _(When Martel suggested stealing supplies from the opposing camp, the general—who looked as thin as they did—just sighed and said, go for it. What did they have to lose? The four of them made their way to the human camp, stealing cheese and hard bread. Yuan stole bottles of wine, muffling their clinking sounds by wrapping cloth around them. When they returned, they shared the food with everyone, but it wouldn't be the last time they stole things)_

The war ends on a bated breath. Both sides sign the treaty, but each side is waiting for another bomb, doesn't remember what peace feels like. But the peace, tenuous as it is, stays, and the soldiers come home. Mithos remembers watching Martel trying to heal them all, remembers late nights with her disinfecting wounds and changing bandages. Yuan comes at least once a day to make sure his wife eats, that she gets away. He knows better than to ask Martel to take a break, knows that she won't, but he and Kratos come to help when they can, busy as they are with rebuilding efforts.

Not all the soldiers make it. They die from infection, from just not having any strength left. There isn't space for all the graves. Kratos suggests a memorial instead, and burning the bodies. The idea is a good one, and the scent of ash doesn't leave the air for months.

The number of wounded tapers off, though, and it becomes a matter of the soldiers being able to care for their injuries themselves. Martel sleeps for an entire day, and all three of them make sure she rests properly. The harvests have come in, and while it's not exactly prosperous, they pack a lunch enough for the four of them and they go out of the city.

Martel comes alive outside, away from walls. Mithos likes to tease her and ask who's the elfchild now. They race and wrestle and enjoy the peace. Yuan and Martel take a nap, curled into each other, and Mithos plays a long game of chess with Kratos. That night, Martel kisses his cheek, hugging him tight, and Mithos buries his face in her sternum, grateful because she's _here_ , they _made it_.

 _(There were a few precious months of lovely peace, when the soldiers were recovering at home, and the cities were being rebuilt. When Mithos thought of peace, he remembered those months. There was so little fear then, and there were victory songs being sung in the streets as people worked, the children learning it and singing them as they played)_

Martel dies a few weeks before her and Yuan's anniversary.

She is going to visit a patient who lives on a farm not far outside of the city. She kisses them goodbye and says she'll see them for dinner. They are helping put glass in the windows when her magic lights up the world, alerting them. They start sprinting that way immediately, but they don't make it in time.

Mithos takes a certain kind of satisfaction in killing those humans. Martel had killed several of them already, but there's blood spreading on her dress—it's only recently that she's been able to wear dresses. She'd worn breeches and a shirt for practicality's sake, and she'd relished the chance to be comfortable and wear something pretty.

She dies in front of them, her lifeblood soaking their knees, and Mithos' world shatters.

 _(Mithos couldn't understand. Martel was unbreakable. She couldn't die. And they'd killed her. They were safe, dammit. They hadn't survived all they had just die here, like this)_

Mithos doesn't die then. He wishes for it. For long weeks after Martel's death, he wants the sharp ache behind his ribs to go away, he wants all of it to just go away. He sees Yuan, hollow with grief, his lips—always quick to grin—a thin line. Kratos is battered, voice hoarse from his tears, and they have all taken their turns sobbing.

Townspeople try to take Martel's body to burn it, to add her name to the memorial, but the three of them must be a terrifying sight because they back away.

 _"This is nothing."_ Words spoken through a bloody smile.

Unbreakable.

Martel had been right. Mithos has survived all he has. He won't give in. He laughs to himself at the thought; giving in to death. Is there any better way to betray all that Martel had taught him?

He brings himself together first. Straightens his shoulders and tells Kratos and Yuan that he won't let Martel go. They can bring her back, they can make her dream succeed. Are you with me?

They're still so stuck in their grief that their moral centers—which, admittedly, have always been more northerly-aligned—don't tilt. They agree.

 _(Mithos broke his vows to the Spirits, broke the laws of matter, broke the world. If no one would save them, he would. That's what heroes did, right? He would make Martel proud. He would build new worlds in her name, her vision. Places where the strong survived, where the strong were rewarded, not forgotten, left to die on a roadside)_

They stop aging. When Mithos looks in the mirror, the same grief-starved face stares back at him. He is eternally fourteen, eternally powerful, eternally ready to take on the world.

He's always been a good liar. Martel would scold him for it, but it's true. He'd lied their way into jobs and distractions.

He lies an entire religion into existence. The Goddess. Benevolent, quietly strong. Never dead, only sleeping.

He lies entire world systems into existence, lies to the people, the churches built in Martel's name—as she rightly deserves. His lies tangle and weave themselves into a tapestry four thousand years long, and they are inseparable from the very building blocks of the world.

He lies to his obstacles, but at some point, it becomes a little hard. He hasn't really _been_ with people in…millennia. So when Genis smiles at him and holds his hand, he flinches away instinctively. It's easy to write it off as trauma, but Lloyd shares a loaf of bread with him, and he stays quiet, absorbing their conversations over dinner.

He remembers friends in a tent in a horrible summer, remembers Yuan grinning and telling jokes under his breath, remembers Kratos snorting, trying to hide his smile as he held a washtub between his knees, scrubbing at bloodstains. He remembers Martel's sweet laughter, remembers her blush at some of the jokes.

It's so _refreshing_ to not lie anymore. "I didn't trust you either," he tells Genis, but that's not entirely true, is it? He doesn't know anymore, doesn't know where the lies stop and the truths begin, they're so interwoven with each other.

 _(An old ache comes back, right in his ribs, at the betrayed look on Genis' face, at the pained resignation. He'd guessed Mithos' identity, had had the gall to hope that he was something better than he was. No, Mithos has only ever been a liar, a warrior, a god, a brother, a survivor. There was nothing about him to redeem and he rather liked it that way)_

Death comes to Mithos again, in the form of possible friends, of possible allies, but they are ultimately enemies. Genis begs him to change, but Mithos only bares his teeth, refuses to let Death take him without a fight, not after all this.

He fights ferociously, with all he has. Summons all the mana to him, bringing down judgment and light, and the stars burn in his brightness. He has no sword for his arms to ache, but that doesn't mean he can't fight back. He ducks and dodges, redirects their swords at each other. And there is Genis, spells spilling from his lips and there it is.

The fight leaves him in a whoosh of breath. He drags himself up the stone steps, forces himself to his feet. They're watching him, wary. He sways where he stands, but he anchors his feet to the ground, tilting his chin up proudly.

He is alone, the last bastion of his empire, betrayed and dying. And here, walking towards him, slowly, his red shadow. He recognizes himself in Lloyd, as he'd been once. Lloyd made different choices—not better ones, necessarily, but different all the same. Lloyd asks him to live with them in this world, but Mithos sneers the offer away.

He has created these worlds. He will die with them.

He has fought Death. Has lost. And now he stands here, and tells him that he's tired. And he is. But he isn't tired of fighting, he's tired of running. His time is up and he will face Death without fear.

Will Martel be there? Wherever people go when they die, a heaven or a hell, will she be waiting for him? He hopes so. He is so very tired of being alone.

And he makes sure they know. "I don't regret my choice. I would make the same choice all over again."

He won't break before Death. He will accept it, but he has fought valiantly, has done all things possible to escape it. And let them know he will not be redeemed. He is proud of his creations, of all he's done. He will not be painted a monster, or a villain. Mithos is a god, a hero, and he will die as one.


End file.
